


escape artist

by ArsenicInYourPudding



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, good old fashioned whump tbh, minor mentions of blood, neil gets the shit kicked out of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6217669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArsenicInYourPudding/pseuds/ArsenicInYourPudding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, Neil's going to miss that pair of running shoes the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	escape artist

Andrew was going to kill him.

The thought made him laugh, high and scared and breathless - it was a lie, just like it was a lie when he said it every other day, except for the days Neil said Andrew was going to _be the death of_ him, that was completely true but forgivable mostly, but _this--_ Andrew wasn’t going to even have a chance this time. Neil pressed his hands over his face, fingertips sliding over new scar tissue and slick layers of warm blood, trying to get a breath past the lump in his throat. His head hurt, his extremities felt numb and impaled by the cold by turns, his ribs were bruised if not cracked. He didn’t even want to think about his shoulder.

Andrew was going to _kill_ him, to say nothing of what Kevin would do.

Neil leaned against the cold brick wall behind him, his arms wrapped around his waist. He’d limped as fast as possible away from the skeletal service station while his attacker was otherwise occupied in the bathroom, but he’d only been able to get so far before his lungs and his bare feet had necessitated finding a place to hide and catch his breath. The world around him was still dark, but the little bit of the horizon he could see from his hiding place was slowly bleeding ever lighter blues and purples into the inky black of the night sky. His watch had taken a hit in the initial attack, the face completely broken. The minute hand ticked uselessly against a wedge of shattered glass that had caved in against the face.

After a minute, he took a deep breath, held it for a second, and levered himself off the wall. Cautiously, he poked his head out of the alley and peered out into the deserted street - aside from the sound of a few scattered cars muffled by distance and intervening structures, the night was quiet. That didn’t reassure him, but it eased the paralyzing fear sitting on his shoulders. He limped down the cracked concrete, trying to pick his steps carefully in the dark while maintaining a fairly brisk pace through the shadows. A car roared to life somewhere behind him, and Neil didn’t bother trying to convince himself to remain calm - he took off at a limping run, bits of gravel and uneven concrete slicing at his feet as he went. His ribcage felt too small, squeezing at his lungs, and his shoulder protested at the jostling, but his brain registered the pain input like he was watching another player get hurt on the court - sympathy pangs, quickly shunted aside in favor of analyzing the game at hand.

He darted around a corner, through a neighborhood that reminded him viscerally of the crumbling, shuttered foreclosures of Millport and into a marginally more brightly lit neighborhood. His bare feet slapped against the concrete, racing between uneven puddles cast around the grimy streetlights. A particularly sharp break in the concrete thrust up before him, and his foot struck the edge of it, sending him pitching forward. He rolled, his injured shoulder taking the brunt of the fall as his cheek scraped along the rough concrete. What remained of his vision burned with static, obscuring the tumbling view of a Playskool-strewn dying lawn. He managed to pick a high-pitched sound, half gasp half nails-on-a-chalkboard, out of the roaring in his ears, and it took him a dizzy, disoriented minute to figure out that it was coming from him.

Something primal, something underneath even the bundle of neurons that lit up at the smell of cigarette smoke, crackled to life, yanking the controls away from pain and panic. _Up_ , it snapped at him, _get_ up _, you’ve been here too long, you need to go._ Obediently, Neil did his best to push up to his hands and knees, only to find that his shoulder couldn’t bear the weight. Gasping, he flopped back to the pavement, mashing his cheek into the concrete. He gave himself another three seconds of static and rushing in his ears before forcing himself to regroup, rolling to his other shoulder and pushing up from there.

Neil limped down the sidewalk slower, partly to keep an eye out lest he trip again, and partly because his hip ached and his knees stung from the impact. He reached out a steadying hand for a high wooden fence, and barely winced when his hand came away punctured with splinters. With every step he took away from his attacker, his thoughts bent more in the direction of _rescue_ \- he should call-- Maybe not Andrew, but _someone_ who could bring him back to campus. He had no idea where he even _was_ , nevermind having any way to call for a ride.

An October breeze tumbled down the street, and he shivered at it. The contraction of muscles was enough to squeeze a coughing fit into motion, and Neil nearly lost his balance as he doubled over and tried to wheeze in enough oxygen to stay conscious. When he got his breath back enough to take stock, something warm and wet and disgusting was sitting on the back of his tongue. He spat into his palm and squinted at it in the glow from the streetlights. His fingers looked black with blood.

Grimacing, he wiped his hand on his sweatpants and kept walking. His mind whirled with possible diagnoses - a shattered shoulder meant he’d never play again, a punctured lung meant he’d sit out the rest of the season and also maybe never play again, although that was less of a guarantee. Scrapes and bruises and burns he could handle. This was another beast entirely.

_Kevin came back from a shattered hand,_ he reminded himself. _He’d probably force you to come back from a shattered shoulder because he hates you. You’d probably let him because you hate you, too._

The horizon had lightened to a gradient of blues, lightest to darkest up from the horizon, by the time Neil stumbled into a small cluster of businesses. A grocery store sat on the corner to his right, and he limped across the cold crosswalk against the light toward it. A payphone sat outside, but he didn’t have so much as his wallet on him, let alone spare change. He was just about to settle in against the wall anyway when a woman in Tweety scrubs and athletic sneakers hurried across the parking lot. She was juggling car keys, an oversized bag, and a jacket pulled on only one arm, and as she approached, he saw a cellphone in the outer mesh pocket of her bag. Gritting his teeth, he fell in behind her, ghosting through the door into the supermarket with her. With practiced fingers, he slipped the phone out of her bag, palming it and tucking it in close to his stomach as he stepped away from her and took a lap around the soup kiosk. The smell of hot tomato soup reminded him that it had been hours since he last ate and he was running on fumes. He willed the ache of hunger to blend in with the rest of the aches in his torso and retraced his bloody footprints outside.

Once, he would’ve said that he was good at remembering phone numbers - he had to be, his mother wouldn’t write numbers down when she sent him to use a payphone to make calls for her. He used to have a host of black-market contacts committed to memory, with the ones written in his binder only as a refresher. But now, with all the team’s numbers stored in his phone, he hadn’t bothered to memorize any of them, besides Coach Wymack’s, and of all the people Neil really didn’t want to call, he was near the top of the list.

He leaned against the wall between the payphone and a dispenser for the local newspaper, wary of putting pressure on his injured shoulder, scanning the parking lot as he wracked his brain desperately for something useful. A string of numbers floated to mind, and he bit his lip, wincing when all that did was remind him of the backhand that had split it open hours earlier. _Might as well_ , he thought wearily as he unlocked the phone, and typed the numbers into the dial pad.

Neil lost track of the number of times it rang, each one kicking him closer to the edge of panic. At last, the phone clicked. “Hello,” Allison said, and Neil choked on a breath he didn’t realize he hadn’t taken.

“Allison,” he managed.

“Neil,” she said, surprised and relieved. “Kevin, come get your damn phone.” The phone shuffled and thudded, like she’d thrown it.

“Where the hell are you,” Kevin demanded. “Why aren’t you calling from your own phone?” He sounded irritable, not particularly concerned, and Neil almost groaned. Why couldn’t he have remembered someone else’s number?

“I don’t know where I am,” Neil confessed, slumping against the wall. “I’m at the corner of Wheland and Gerard, wherever that is. I-- Don’t tell Andrew yet.”

“Wheland and Gerard,” Kevin repeated, like he was telling someone else. “That’s on the other side of town. What the hell, Neil? You said you were just going for a quick run last night.”

“I know, I know I know I know,” Neil said, nearly interrupting him. “I know, okay? Just--” The rising irritation and panic constricted his lungs, and he pulled the phone away from his face as another coughing fit took hold.

“Neil, _breathe_ ,” Kevin snapped, and distantly, Neil recognized an edge of panic in his tone. “We’re coming, Wheland and Gerard, we’re on our way. What happened?”

His breath caught in his throat, blood coating the name _Jackson_ in his throat and sticking it to the back of his tongue. He choked it back and managed, “Mugged.”

“You-- You got _mugged_ ,” Kevin repeated incredulously. “Neil, it’s been seven _hours_ since you left, you could’ve _walked_ home by this point.”

“Long story,” he amended. “And no, I can’t walk home.”

Kevin paused, and muffled the phone in his shirt. Still, Neil heard him say, “Nicky, wake Abby up, we’re going to need her.”

Neil scanned the parking lot. Dawn was gaining momentum, and a streetlight at the far end of the parking lot clicked off as morning light tripped the solar sensor. His fight-or-flight response kicked in, giving him enough energy to push off the wall. “I need to go,” he muttered, glancing left and right as he took a step away from the wall. “I’m headed-- Away from Wheland, on Gerard. I just need to keep moving. I’ll-- I’ll stay in sight from the road as much as I can.”

“Neil, don’t you dare hang up on me,” Kevin warned. Neil hung up anyway, cleared the call history and checked the screen for blood, and left it face-down on the newspaper dispenser. In a perfect world, he’d go turn it into the desk, but he’d already tracked bloody bare footprints into the grocery store, and he’d rather not attract any more attention. He limped down the sidewalk and into another sleeping residential area. He couldn’t tell how far he’d fled so far, but he was exhausted and each ragged, sticky-sounding breath as a bitter nightmare. Still, he kept moving - the more distance he put between himself and Jackson by dawn, the better.

But after three blocks of walking, he could barely breathe, and his legs threatened to crumple out from under him. Every survival instinct pushed him to keep going, but one breath stuck in his throat and he choked on it. Scattered pieces registered the tumble onto someone’s front lawn - the change in equilibrium, the renewed ache in his knees from the impact, the brush of wet grass against his feet and face and bruised arms - but none of them could complete a whole event. His brain was too busy trying to draw in enough oxygen.

Miserable and aching, he curled in on himself, the grass squishing faintly underneath him. He didn’t have the balance to get up again, or the strength to even make an attempt. After a while - maybe a minute, maybe a week - a car pulled up to the curb, and Neil closed his eyes.

Someone hit the ground in front of his stomach with a thud, curling over him but not touching. “Neil, goddamnit,” Andrew snapped.

He cracked an eye open. Andrew was looming over him, with Kevin right behind him. In the edge of Neil’s frame of vision, he could see Nicky’s glaringly awful tie-dye sweatshirt digging in the trunk of Andrew’s car. “Told you not to tell him,” he muttered at Kevin, who was now crouched next to Andrew.

Andrew snarled down at him, eyes bright and furious. Kevin chose not to dignify that with a response.

“Oh my god, Neil,” Nicky said, carrying a thrift store blanket he’d scavenged from the emergency kit Renee had installed in the car. He flicked it open and knelt behind Neil’s back. “Matt said he’d meet us at Abby’s,” he told the other two. “Allison and Aaron stayed to corral the freshmen, he said he’d call Dan and Renee and Wymack.”

“Yeah, they’re all out looking for your ass,” Kevin groused, but even half-conscious, Neil could tell he was too rattled to be truly angry. Neil opened his mouth to respond, and Nicky started to slide the blanket around his shoulders and leverage him up off the ground with one move. Pain lanced through Neil’s injured shoulder and he gasped, flinching away from Nicky’s hands.

“Sorry,” Nicky said hurriedly, and Andrew shoved him back to finish getting Neil upright himself. “Sorry, sorry, oh my god.”

“What did you do to your shoulder,” Kevin demanded.

“Wouldn’t - mmph - you like to know,” Neil muttered absently as Andrew hoisted him back to a standing position. The world swam, and only Andrew’s tight grip kept him from losing his balance.

“Nicky,” Andrew commanded, and Kevin opened and closed his mouth before getting in the passenger seat. Obediently, Nicky slid to the middle of the backseat and helped Andrew guide Neil into the warm interior of the car, scooting over to the window as he pulled Neil with him.

“Shh, I know, I know,” Nicky murmured, adjusting Neil’s head so it was pillowed in the crook of his arm, lolling against his bicep, and combing his fingers through Neil’s tangled, blood-matted hair as best he could. “We’ve got you now, it’s okay.”

That seemed to be all the encouragement Neil’s adrenaline rush needed to shut off completely, and he spent the rest of the ride drifting between wakefulness and a dizzy, fitful sleep. More than once he thought he heard Nicky tell Andrew to slow down, goddamnit, although it might have easily happened only once and blurred to seem like more, like seeing double. At length, the car jerked to a stop, and Neil was pulled back from his drifting state by fingers pressing against his neck.

“Jesus, he’s not _dead_ ,” Nicky said, trying for annoyed and just managing worried. Neil fumbled a hand up by his shoulder and caught the fingers checking his pulse before they pulled away. They stilled, and shifted to give his a tentative squeeze.

The door by Neil’s feet opened, and he squinted up just far enough to see Abby leaning over his knees. “We really need to stop meeting like this,” she said, a fragile stab at humor, and held her hands out to help Nicky guide him out of the car. The sudden shift in altitude and angles set off another round of coughing, and Abby crouched in front of him, running fingers over his lips and gently prying his mouth open to check for blood. “He’s probably going to need X-rays,” she said, shooting a warning glance at Kevin

“Is he going to be _okay_ ,” Kevin asked insistently, leaning on the car door and drumming his fingers anxiously on the top. It was an odd display of concern, but Neil didn’t have the reserves to analyze it.

Abby turned her attention back to Neil and gave him her best reassuring smile. “Yeah, he’ll be just fine. We’ll make sure of that.”

* * *

Abby’s cursory examination had ruled that Neil’s shoulder wasn’t shattered, but was likely broken in at least one place, and that he probably hadn’t punctured a lung, only cracked a few ribs and bit something open in his mouth which explained the blood. She left him with a kiss to his forehead in the front bedroom where they’d settled him and went to go call a friend who worked at UrgentCare about how soon they could get him in for an X-ray to see the extent of the damage. When she opened the door, Neil could hear Andrew and Kevin arguing full-volume in the living room.

“ _Mugged?_ What the fuck kind of story is _that?_ ”

“I’m _telling_ you, that’s all he _told_ me,” Kevin snapped. “It’s not my fault he doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me - ask him yourself, if you’re so--”

“Not like that, you don’t,” Abby cut in, her voice equally loud but much more calm. After a stunned pause, she continued, lowering her voice enough that Neil had to strain to make out her words. “Take a deep breath and settle down, both of you. I mean it - he has a head injury, don’t make his undeniably splitting headache even worse.”

The argument lapsed abruptly into silence, but after a minute, Neil heard water running in the hall bathroom, and a few seconds later Andrew appeared in the doorway.

“Hey,” Neil managed, his voice raw and indistinct.

“God, stop talking,” Andrew said immediately, although Neil couldn’t tell whether he was taking offense to his vocal quality or the idea of Neil speaking in general. Still, Neil shut up, and watched Andrew hesitate for a split second before settling on the bed at Neil’s hip, his ankles folded up under his knees. He held a wet washcloth in one hand, Neil noticed, and he scooted forward enough that he could reach Neil’s face without stretching. “You’re covered in blood,” he noted, “it’s disgusting.”

“Sorry I didn’t have time to primp after getting the shit kicked out of me,” Neil mumbled, Andrew’s hand sliding around the opposite side of his jaw to turn his head.

“What did I say about talking?”

Silently, Andrew scrubbed blood and dirt away from Neil’s face, finishing with the cut near Neil’s hairline. He ran his fingertips over it, tracing the injury for nearly an inch, before he dropped his hand again. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing,” Neil managed defensively, and Andrew covered his mouth with his hand.

“You’re having a _very_ hard time with _no talking_ ,” Andrew said, accusatory but not upset.

“You asked,” Neil muttered under Andrew’s palm.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” The response was so characteristically Andrew in its terse nonsensicalness that something in Neil’s chest loosened. “Am I going to have to go with you every time you go for a run now?” Neil didn’t say anything, and Andrew reached over and thumped Neil’s cheek. “That’s an open question, jackass.”

“You just said you weren’t talking to me,” Neil reminded him. “I don’t think I’m going for a run anytime soon, honestly, so you’re probably safe.”

Andrew didn’t respond, just rested his palm on Neil’s chest, staring off into space at Neil’s ripped, dirty t-shirt. Neil took a few breaths, expanding his lungs as much as he could, a wordless reassurance for both of them that he was still breathing.

“Who did this,” Andrew asked quietly.

Neil laced his fingers through Andrew’s. “Don’t,” he rasped.

“Neil--”

“No. I-- Don’t leave,” Neil said, giving a feeble tug on Andrew’s hand.

Andrew blinked, his face blank. “That’s my line,” he muttered indignantly after a second, adjusting his grip on Neil’s hand. “Who did this?”

“Andrew.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m here. Just tell me. I’ll hold onto it.”

Neil swallowed thickly, his mouth tasting of blood and cigarette smoke. “One of my dad’s goons escaped,” he said, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Apparently he’s not a fan of unemployment.”

Andrew’s fingers tightened around his so hard Neil’s knuckles popped. He hissed as pain jolted up his wrist, and Andrew loosened his grip immediately. “He’ll come back,” Andrew said flatly, not a question.

“Probably,” Neil sighed. The thought made him exhausted, and he closed his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell Kevin?”

Neil cracked an eye open again. “Tell Kevin what?”

“He said you told him you got mugged.” Andrew’s lips twitched. “As sheltered and single-minded as he is, even Kevin can tell what _mugged_ looks like, and this isn’t it.”

Neil managed a thin groan and closed his eye again. “I was standing out in the open with a stolen cell phone and a hitman looking for me. I didn’t have time to tell him my whole sob story. Why does everything have to be about _him_?”

Andrew made a noise that might’ve been a short laugh. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Oh god. I’ll do anything for you to not do that.”

The fingers laced into Neil’s disappeared, only to reappear pressed carefully against his sternum. “I guess asking you to stay safe is pointless,” Andrew muttered.

“You decided you wanted that job,” Neil reminded him.

Andrew sighed, and his lips pressed against Neil’s for a fraction of a second, the hand on Neil’s chest curling a little in the fabric of his t-shirt. “And I regret it daily.”

Neil cracked one eye open and smiled.

 


End file.
